


Valentine's Day is only fun for happy people and drunk people

by agentlithium



Series: emotionally unstable holidays [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, jim's angsting, lowkey drinking away the pain, oswald still wants dick, sexuality crisis in your mid-30s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 12:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9726767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentlithium/pseuds/agentlithium
Summary: Jim's having a gay panic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> well b'ys here she is. a big ol ugly pile of word vomit to serve as the sequel to my christmas fic and the third part of my emotionally unstable holidays series. enjoy.

The next invitation didn’t come as a showy public performance or even a folded card bearing a nearly impossible to read message written in messy cursive. No, it was but a very brief and to-the-point request Jim received via text message on the afternoon of February 13th.

_ Drop by for drinks and a chat tomorrow? Unless you’re busu _

A minute or so went by.

_ Sorry *busy _

He read the message over and over again, minding the typo. This wasn’t a party or any sort of obligatory social event. Oswald simply asked for his presence, for Jim to join him in a lonely evening for two. And on Valentine’s Day, no less. Every alarm in Jim’s head went off. He had flashbacks to the Christmas party more vivid than his traumatic nightmares of war. He hadn’t spoken to Oswald or even thought about him since then. After what happened, he was hoping he’d die before he next saw the mayor. It gave him a migraine, thinking about how he was the one who initiated the kiss, completely sober and with a million different ways to get out of that situation. The way his stomach flipped and writhed about within him took him back to a few very confusing moments in high school he did a wonderful job of suppressing for twenty years. Times his eye would wander in the locker room or in the showers. He was never caught looking, but the horrors of facing that dreaded B-word weighed as heavily on him now as it did then.

He had absolutely no interest in Oswald Cobblepot, right? And no other man, for that matter. He was straighter than a fencepost. He had to be. There was no way that Jim Gordon,  _ the  _ Jim Gordon, in all his emotionally-unavailable glory, was, dare he even think it, _ bisexual _ . Impossible. Not a chance. He liked women exclusively, even though he was hard-pressed to find one that could put up with him. Even so, he could never see himself with a man. He just kissed Oswald to get him off his back. There was no underlying feelings that prevented him from decking Oswald in his stupid pointy nose. He just didn’t want to cause a scene by punching the mayor of Gotham, that’s all. He wasn’t getting lost in those pale green eyes that pulled you into a wonderful trance and refused to let you go or anything like that. He definitely wasn’t drawn to the idea of taking that arrogant prick and putting him in his place through gratuitous amounts of rough touching and thinly veiled, vaguely suggestive threats. It was fine, though. He was fine. Everything was fine.

No, he was fucked. He was so, totally fucked, because he was taking up Oswald’s offer.

If there’s anything Jim hated more than being told what to do and facing his problems, its uncertainty. He was going to answer every question he had regarding the events of the Christmas party and every puzzling encounter between him and Cobblepot before that. He would just show up, make nice for a few minutes, grill the fuck out of Oswald to figure out what’s going on, then leave to do something overly-heterosexual to reassure himself. Easy. Perhaps he could call Harvey afterwards and they could drink intensely bitter but very masculine alcohols. Then, almost as if like a demon called into our world by thought, Harvey appeared behind him.

“Why is Penguin texting you to come over?” Jim spun around quickly in his chair, stuffing his phone in his pocket.

“What? I don’t know,” he answered much too quickly.  _ Shit _ . Harvey gave him a look.

“Something going on? What, is he your latest squeeze?” he asked, jokingly. “Couldn’t get a lady for yourself, so you’re pitching for the other team? Or you could very well be catching—”

“Harvey!”

“What?”

“I’m not doing anything for the other team- I mean, I’m not doing anything with Penguin. He’s just… I don’t know, okay? I don’t know why he texted me,” Jim sighed heavily. He was doing a terrible job of being inconspicuous. Harvey raised his brow and sat down at his desk across from Jim.

“Alright, no need to get short with me. I was only screwing with you,” he adjusted his glasses and began perusing a file upon his desk, but Jim knew he was suspicious. Jim didn’t even react so nervously when he was accused of murder.

“Is there something you wanna tell me?” Harvey added quietly.

“Hm? What do you mean?”

“Well, with the whole Lee situation and the time of year, it’s only expected you would get... lonely. And Cobblepot’s had a thing for you since—”

“No, Harvey, I have nothing to tell you. Nothing’s going on with me and Penguin,” Jim gave a weak smile to deter Harvey from prying further.

“Okay, just remember you can talk to Uncle Harvey about anything.” Jim rolled his eyes.

“Right, because you’d be over the moon if I told you I was bedding Penguin.”

“Hey, I’ve taken worse home, Jim. I can’t judge.”

“I really don’t wanna know.”

He waited until he was on his break to message Oswald back. He still didn’t know why he was even humouring the idea of drinking himself into an incapacitated state alongside Gotham’s controversial mayor. He supposed he was just lonely, like Harvey said. But what was he expecting to get out of Cobblepot? How could he possibly soothe the pain of Jim’s broken heart? Jim didn’t really care. He was going to drown his already suppressed sorrows further until he couldn’t remember his own last name or even the fact that it was Valentine’s Day. His fingers moved quickly on the keypad of his phone.

_ sure. what time? _

He slid his phone back into his pocket, happily ignoring the terrible mistake he probably just made.

His messages went unchecked for hours. He was plugging his phone in to charge it that night when he finally decided to see if Oswald replied, and he had.

_ Wonderful. Any time after 8 would be fine. _

Jim nodded like Oswald could see him showing his agreement and retired to his chamber. He was feeling oddly calm. More at peace now than he’d felt in a while. Was this at the prospect of spending time with Oswald that had him uncharacteristically relaxed? Maybe. Fuck if he knows. He stripped down to his dirty undershirt and boxers. Everything, including his own person, was in desperate need of a wash; however, that was a problem for tomorrow-Jim, as was pretty much everything else. He collapsed on his uncomfortable bed and slept as restfully as the most restless man alive possibly could.

The next day was just as depressing as anticipated. It held all the regular dreariness and monotony of every other day, but with an extra kick to the junk by way of loving couples parading hand-in-hand down the street. Advertisements plastered on every wall depicted pairs of people laughing together and holding each other. Jim kept his eyes focused on the road while he drove to the precinct. He sincerely considered running his car into the nearest brick wall, just to get away from all the absolutely unneeded reminders of his crushing solitude. Of course, Valentine’s Day was merely a marketing scheme to sell loads of chocolate, flowers, and jewelry, but it still managed to have all the single folk out there feeling like shit.

His spirits were somewhat lifted come the end of his shift. While he was stuck at his desk doing paperwork for what seemed like years, he overheard some of the other officers talking about Valentine’s past and how last year, they were called to respond to a young couple— or former couple— having it out in a parking lot. The girl was winning, as one cop retold. She was a scrappy fighter. Biting, pinching, kicking. The boy couldn’t land a solid punch on her because she was so quick. She had poked him in the eye and gotten him on the ground so she could deliver blow after blow with her tiny hands. When the police intervened, the boy took the time she was distracted to dish out one left hook to the jaw. She almost bit her tongue clean in half. Both were arrested and treated for the mutual ass-kickings they were both victims of. A bitter part of Jim (every part of him was bitter) smiled knowing that his day could’ve definitely been going much worse and that those kids were probably in love once, but love couldn’t withstand the weight of what was likely a doomed relationship. He wasn’t alone in his misery, he supposed.

When nine rolled around, he was sprawled on his couch and far too tired to move. He got off work hours ago, but once he was on that couch he was there to stay. Still, he remembered Oswald and the pang of guilt that followed the mental image of him, sitting alone and waiting on Jim, was enough to push him from his worn out sofa and to his feet. He elected to call a cab, fully aware of how much he was planning on drinking. Not bothering to change out of his suit, he picked up the phone and dialed the number he had copied to memory. Then, he only had to wait.

He had never personally been to the manor which was now in Oswald’s possession. Apparently, he had inherited it from his father, a man Oswald met mere weeks before the old man kicked the bucket. Jim would certainly bring up the suspicious circumstances, but he honestly didn’t want to make more work for himself and throw the first semi-competent mayor Gotham’s had in a long time into prison. It was already known that wherever Oswald went, death would swiftly follow, whether he was the one bringing it directly or not. It wouldn’t surprise him if Oswald killed his own father for the money.  _ If you really think that badly of him, why are you here?  _ The nagging voice that picked him apart the last two times he decided to accept Cobblepot’s invitations had returned to question him further. He really had no excuse. He didn’t have to be here, yet here he was. He’d never say, but, deep down, he knew he wanted to be here. He knocked sharply upon the large  front door before his thoughts could persuade him to leave. A rather intimidating woman in an old-fashioned maid outfit answered to him.

“Hello,” she said flatly, a thick Russian accent already evident in the lone word spoken.

“Um, I’m here to see Mayor Cobblepot?” The woman sized him up with a critical eye. Once Jim was thoroughly uncomfortable, she called back into the mansion.

“Mister Cobblepot, a man is here to see you,” her disinterested tone carried throughout the halls and before long, the sound of shuffling footfall echoed back.

“One moment, I’m coming! Thank you, Olga,” Oswald replied, slowly but surely arriving to greet Jim at the door. Olga smiled faintly and walked off out of sight. When Oswald finally reached Jim, he grinned brightly. His hair was unstyled, falling flat, midway down his forehead. He was sporting a very fancy gold-patterned housecoat over what seemed to be black, silk pajamas. This was about as close to “comfy clothes” as Oswald could probably ever get. If he didn’t always look like a weird, hairless cat with a facial deformity and horrible skin condition, he may have possibly looked cute.

“Jim, how lovely to see you! I’m so glad you made it,” he stepped back and gestured inside. “Please come in.”

“Thanks,” Jim nodded and stepped into the foyer. The house was lovely. It was very old and managed to feel homey even in its grandeur. He tried not to consider the multitude of lives that were likely lost within its walls thanks to the man who stood before him. He had to silence the critical part of him once again. He couldn’t possibly make it through the night with the voice of reason constantly reminding him of how crazy all of this was.

They exchanged pleasant small talk before Oswald lead Jim over to a sitting area beside a fireplace. The fire roared and emitted a comfortable amount of heat— which was very welcome to the man who had just come in from the brutal February cold. Jim sat down in a somewhat uncomfortable armchair that looked to be worth more than him.

“What can I get you to drink?” asked Oswald.

“Anything’s fine.”

“Wine?” He gestured with the nearly empty glass in his hand.

“Sure.”

“Is red okay?”

“Yeah, that's perfect.”

Oswald returned with the the bottle of incredibly fancy red wine and an extra glass for his guest. He topped off his own drink before pouring one up for Jim. One glass turned to three turned to however many they were at after Jim had lost count. The conversation went from stiff and nervous to easy and friendly, a state they had never achieved in any of their previous chats. Oswald laughed at all of Jim’s jokes and Jim  _ actually _ told jokes. It had been very long since either had spoken so freely to anyone. Amidst it all, Jim and Oswald ended up on the loveseat together with Oswald nearly sitting on top of Jim. He was having some sort of drunken giggle-fit and Jim’s foolishness wasn’t helping him compose himself at all.

“W-What I’m saying is— don’t laugh! What I’m saying is that— you can appreciate another man’s looks, without being gay. You aren’t gay just ‘cause you have eyes,” Jim said, rather matter-of-factly, until he, too, broke into giggles.

“Okay, okay,” Oswald tried to settle himself enough to speak. “But what if you appreciate another man’s looks  _ and _ you’re gay?”

“Well, then it’s a gay thing. It’s pretty simple.”

“Ahh, I see, alright,” Oswald nodded pensively for a moment. He paused, then spoke again.

“Are you?”

“Am I what?” Jim turned his head to Oswald, a quizzical expression on his face.

“Gay. Are you gay?” Jim chuckled, almost to himself.

“Are  _ you _ gay?” Oswald went quiet for a bit. Jim worried he may have hit a nerve with his rather personal question. Oswald didn’t look upset, just shy. Shyer than he had all night.

“Yeah, sort of. Pretty sure. Don’t tell anyone, though,” his green eyes flitted briefly upward.

“Don’t worry about that. It’ll be a miracle if I remember anything past this point come tomorrow. Also, everyone kind of thinks you’re gay, anyway.”

“What? No they don’t!” Oswald tone changed, suddenly shrill to signify offence taken. If it wasn’t for the slight quirk upon his lips, he would’ve actually appeared to be angry. “Who thinks I’m gay? Bullock? Or some of my own men?”

“Calm down, Oswald. Honestly, I thought it too, even before—” he stopped himself before bringing up the events of the Christmas party. Even when inebriated, he still had some sense left in him. Oswald didn’t seem to notice the abrupt cutoff.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” he pouted and cuddled closer to Jim’s side.

“Oh, yeah, I don’t know. I’m pretty sure I’m not gay. I like women, for sure, but I’m growing… uncertain or myself, lately. I kind of came here to get answers. Figure shit out.” Oswald nodded.

“What kind of questions are you looking to answer?”

  


“Like, am I entirely straight? Has my entire life been one big ignored sexuality crisis? Will I ever be able to talk about this while I’m sober?” he laughed a little on that last point.

“And what makes you think I can answer these questions?” Everything was still friendly and light-hearted, but Oswald was hoping that Jim’s response would result in some extensive physical experimentation, just to fully “figure himself out”. Both being grown-ass adults, it would be expected this phase was long behind both of them, but apparently being emotionally constipated in Jim’s case and a fucking loser in Oswald’s puts a hold on your “figure shit out” stage in life.

“Well, with the stunt you pulled at the Christmas party...” Jim trailed off a little, flicking his wrist lazily. “That left me a little…”

_ Desperate for more? _ Oswald wondered eagerly.

“I dunno, Muddled, y’know?”

_ Close enough . _

“Yeah, I know.”

“I know you have a thing for me, though.” Oswald’s gut dropped into his shoes, but he didn’t let it show.

“What makes you think that?”

“Am I wrong?” Jim turned to Oswald. They were  _ very _ close, Oswald noticed. He wanted to kiss Jim, so he did and, thankfully, he didn’t get punched. Jim didn’t react a lot, but he was heavily intoxicated, so Oswald didn’t expect much. He pulled back slowly, now eyeing his hands in his lap.

“So I’m right?” Jim’s voice was softer. His words slurred together slightly.

“I should call you a cab.”

“But I’m right, yeah?”

“Would you prefer if Gabe drove you home?”

“That would be great. I don’t have my wallet on me.”

“How did you expect to pay for the cab ride back?” Oswald straightened his back a little. “Did you plan on staying the night?” Jim hesitated. Both were somewhat embarrassed and sheepish and drunk as all fuck. Jim pushed himself up from the couch, swaying on his feet. He offered Oswald his hand.

“I’ll take that ride now.” Oswald’s mischievous grin attempted to make a comeback, but only formed as a small smirk upon his thin lips. Jim was never intending on going home.

“You can stay, if you’d like,” Oswald tried his best to sound sultry. Jim scoffed.

“No thanks, maybe some other time.” That excited Oswald because he implied this wasn’t the last of their meetings. He didn’t bother arguing and simply called for Gabe.

“Another time, old friend,” He stood up on the tips of his toes to plant a kiss upon Jim’s cheek. They exchanged ‘goodnight’s when Gabe’s thunderous footsteps came into earshot. Oswald gave his command, Jim gave his address (half burped out), and Gabe took him out to one of the fancy cars out in the large driveway. They were silent for most of the drive, then Gabe spoke.

“So, you and the Boss…”

“Hmph?” Jim sort of grunted. He was pretty close to unconsciousness when Gabe decided to stick his big nose in Jim’s business. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe?” If his eyes were open, he would see Gabe was smilling.

"Only took you two years,” Gabe muttered to himself. Jim ignored him and tried to doze off again in the passenger seat. He was jarred awake when they arrived at his residence and after thanking the burly driver, he stumbled up to his piece-of-shit apartment. Once inside, he slumped against the door. None of his original questions were answered and he was a hell of a lot more confused now than he was earlier on that day, but it was still nice to spend Valentine’s Day with somebody.


End file.
